Sessions with Madness
by wouldyouliketoseemymask
Summary: An interview with Dr. Crane is never simple.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**A/N:** The other day I was listening to Scarecrow's interview tapes from Arkham Asylum, and I thought it would be interesting to explore what an interview session with Nolan-verse Scarecrow would be like. The result was this fic. I had intended for this to be a one-shot, but as it grew longer and longer I decided to split it into multiple chapters instead.

**Sessions with Madness, Chapter One**

For years, Dr. Norman Perkins has been the victim of a most grievous injustice.

When Perkins first started his tenure as a psychiatrist at Arkham Asylum, he envisioned an illustrious career; sessions with the asylum's most notorious criminals, book deals, talk show appearances, the works.

In truth, Perkins cared very little about his patients or their recovery. He _had_ cared, in the beginning, as a wide-eyed student with ambitions and a desire to change the world. He'd entered the psychiatry field because of a genuine interest in helping others, regardless of their past actions. _It wasn't his place to judge_, he'd thought. _Only to help_.

His first year in the "real world" had changed that. The well-intentioned naivety was soon replaced with shock and horror when he began to interview inmates. Sure, they'd taught him what to expect in medical school, but words that lost their meaning when printed in black and white sounded so very different when spilling out of a sneering mouth.

And some of them sounded so _proud_ of what they'd done, almost eager to tell.

Over time, his revulsion overpowered any preconceived notions he'd had regarding "change" or "help". He now realized what a fool he'd been for wanting to change the world; many men had tried for hundreds of years before him, and few achieved any degree of success.

After seeing some of the very worst that humanity has to offer, he wasn't too sure if the world was worth saving anyway.

Perhaps there was still a glimmer of that wide-eyed student somewhere inside of him, a part of him that still cared. Nonetheless, after his first year as a psychiatrist he'd changed his goals. From then on, his one desire was to make his wallet as fat as his ego. He figured a job at Arkham-a prestigious institution with access to super-criminals—would be a one-way ticket to his success. Get in, get a book deal, get out.

He hadn't planned on Dr. Jonathan Crane interfering with those plans.

Creepy Crane. Always quiet and unassuming, always hiding in the corner during staff get-togethers, always careful to stay out of everyone's way.

Always getting the best cases.

Perkins hadn't stood a chance when Crane was around. While Perkins was dealing with the run-of-the-mill, average inmate, Crane was getting the _real good_ criminals—the ones people pay to read about. He'd watch Crane walk out of an interview room and retreat into his office for hours before heading off to another interview. No doubt he was working on a hell of a book of his own.

Creepy, crafty Crane.

He'd been just as shocked as the rest of the staff when Crane was revealed as Scarecrow. But while everyone else was still reeling from the shock, Perkins was piecing together a plan. When Crane was admitted as a patient, Perkins jumped at the chance to be his doctor. After all, he hadn't worked with Crane as long as the other doctors had; there would be no conflict of interest, and little past history to clout his judgment. It's what would be best for Crane, he assured the others; after all, doesn't he deserve the same quality of treatment as any other patient?

Of course, his true intentions weren't quite so noble.

Perkins was now presented with a truly unique opportunity; he could pitch his book not only from the perspective as a doctor, but as a coworker. He'd have to embellish a few details—he'd only spoken to Crane a handful of times before his incarceration—but he wasn't too terribly concerned with ethics anyway.

He figured Crane would be a simple enough subject to interview; the whole business with the mask was a clear-cut case of textbook split personality, certainly nothing he hadn't seen before dozens of times. All he has to do is get Crane to open up—what inspired him to study fear, what was his life like before "Scarecrow", has he ever had his heart broken, does he loves his mother—and _cha-ching_. Any man compelled to call himself a Scarecrow and terrorize an entire city has to have one hell of a past, and if he doesn't then Perkins will give him one. People eat up misery like it's candy, and he'll make sure Crane's tale is a real tearjerker.

Who knows, he might even get people to feel sympathy for the guy that gassed them with fear toxin.

* * *

Dr. Jonathan Crane sits in Arkham Asylum Interview Room #4, lightly drumming his fingers on the table before him. Sharp clicks emanate through the room as five fingernails meet faux wood in quick succession. _Click click click click click_. _Click click click_-

"That's enough, Mr. Crane." The security guard's voice is booming, his tone demanding. Crane fingers halt above the table mid-tap.

"I prefer Dr. Crane, please," Crane says quietly, placing his hand in his lap.

The guard lets out a harsh snort of disdain. "Yeah, okay, _Dr._ Crane. Whatever gets you through the day."

Crane swallows his annoyance, remaining silent and unmoving. Any display of emotion is a victory to the guards; to them, their power is a game, the inmates their pawns. Crane understands this and uses it to his advantage. He does not allow himself to become angry in the guards' presence; he accepts their jeers and taunts in silence. Only when he is alone in his cell does he enjoy the luxury of anger, entertaining himself with thoughts of vengeance.

Crane can play their game just as well as them. They interpret his silence as passiveness, as a weakness. They see him as a timid, spineless creature, meek and unworthy of their fear. Of course, they only feel this way because Crane _allows_ them to. Despite his position, Crane is always in control—not the asylum. He may follow their orders, swallow their pills, and live in their cell, but _he_ is the one with all the power.

The brutes may feel like they can bully Jonathan Crane, but they'd _never _dare to intimidate Scarecrow.

The door opens and in walks Dr. Norman Perkins. He leans forward and juts out his hand toward Crane. "Good evening Dr. Crane, I'm Dr. Perkins." Perkins grins and Crane can practically see every tooth in his mouth. He is reminded of a shark.

Where Crane any other prisoner, the guard would have immediately instructed Perkins to not touch him, to not attempt to initiate physical contact. _He's dangerous_, they would say. _It's for your own protection, sir._

But this is Jonathan Crane—mild, timid, meek Jonathan Crane—and so the guard barely acknowledges when Crane reaches up and shakes Perkins' hand, his fingers cold and thin against the other man's wrist. Perkins finds the sensation unpleasant and pulls his hand back as quickly as possible without coming across as rude.

"There is no need for an introduction, Dr. Perkins. I remember you."

"Of course, of course. How very silly of me." Perkins flashes the same predatory grin as before. "How are you feeling tonight, Dr. Crane?"

"Fine," Crane replies promptly.

"Excellent."

Crane can detect the air of detachment in Perkins' almost-automated response. He watches as Perkins' fingers slide to the tape recorder in his coat pocket, watches as they practically twitch with anticipation as he places the recorder on the table.

"I'm going to ask you a few questions, Dr. Crane, if that's alright with you?"

Crane is not fooled by Perkins' forced pleasantries. His eagerness is apparent, and the hint of greed in his eyes tells Crane that it is not a thirst for knowledge that fuels his ambition, but profit. He considers Perkins a spider, spinning webs of falsities in an attempt to ensnare his prey, itching to sink his teeth in.

Crane will play along, for now.

"Of course, doctor."

Perkins smiles and presses the _record _button.


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**A/N:** I just wanted to thank you all for the overwhelmingly positive reaction and reviews I received for the first chapter! It really means a lot to me. I haven't written much in a while and I'm still trying to get back in the swing of things, so to speak, and to receive such great feedback after posting the first thing I've written in months is just...awesome. Thank you thank you thank you!

**Sessions with Madness, Chapter Two**

"Patient interview one with Patient Number 7942, Jonathan Crane. Dr. Crane, could you please state your name for the record?"

"Dr. Jonathan Crane."

"And Dr. Crane, are you in any way, shape, or form being coerced into answering my questions against your free will?"

"No, I am not."

"Excellent. Are you ready to start?"

"By all means."

Crane watches as Perkins reaches for the thick file before him with greedy hands. He can tell the man is eager to pry; Crane wonders if he'll try to maintain an air of professionalism and start off with the "easy" questions and work his way up or if he'll blurt out the _real good_ ones right off the bat.

"Dr. Crane, do you know why you are here?" Perkins asks, pen in hand, hovering over a notepad.

_There's that spider again._

"I believe we both know why I am here, Dr. Perkins," Crane replies icily. "There is no need to pretend otherwise."

"Of course, Dr. Crane," Perkins says quickly, clearly worried that he has angered Crane—not out of politeness, of course, but out of fear that he will refuse to answer any of his questions. "If you're comfortable with it, I'd like to hear the reason in your own words."

Crane wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. "I was deemed a danger to society and sent here to receive treatment with hopes of rehabilitation." He slides his tongue back into his mouth, letting out a low _cluck_. "Is that a satisfactory answer?"

Perkins scribbles on his notepad before returning his eyes to Crane. "And do you agree with that assessment, Dr. Crane?"

"Does it really matter if I agree with it or not?"

Perkins pauses. "Well-"

"Why did you become a psychiatrist, Dr. Perkins? If you're _comfortable_ answering that, of course."

"With all due respect, Dr. Crane, this interview is about you, not me." Perkins' tone takes an ever-so-slightly hard edge, as if he is trying to sound authoritative.

"Perhaps if I were to learn a bit about you, I would be more willing to talk. No one wants to tell their secrets to a stranger."

Perkins shifts in his chair. "Alright. I became a psychiatrist because I wanted to help people."

The corners of Crane's mouth turn up in a small, mocking smile. "And did you?"

Perkins blinks and Crane's smile widens, knowing he has made the man uncomfortable.

"I'd like to think so," Perkins replies, and Crane detects a slight shake in his voice. He has unnerved him. _Good_.

"How nice for you."

"Why did _you_ become a psychiatrist, Dr. Crane?" Perkins asks, in an attempt to steer the interview back towards Crane.

"To learn how the mind works," Crane replies, his tone now flat and bored. The question is rather dull when asked without malice.

"Is that a subject that has always intrigued you?"

"I suppose."

"Ever since you were a child?"

_So predictable_. Crane smirks. "Why don't you ask me what you really want to ask me, Dr. Perkins?"

"I'm sorry?"

He lets out a low sigh of annoyance. "Every doctor that walks through that door wants to talk to me about my childhood. Don't dance around the question. Just ask me what you _really _want to ask me."

Perkins look uncomfortable again. "Why don't you just answer my question, Dr. Crane? Please."

A moment passes before Crane replies. "Yes," he says. "I've wanted to study the human mind ever since I was a child."

"Why is it that fear in particular is of interest to you?"

As soon as the question has left Perkins' lips he sees a flash of anger in Crane's eyes. His breath catches in his throat and he stiffens in his seat.

The anger is gone as quickly as it arrived and Crane's eyes are cold again, his face free of emotion.

"I don't know, Dr. Perkins. Isn't that what I'm here to learn?" Crane's voice is calm, but Perkins feels rather than hears something hidden beneath his cool facade.

Perkins nods slowly. "Yes, you are correct, Dr. Crane. I just thought that perhaps you-"

"What are you scared of, Norman? May I call you Norman?"

"I'd prefer that you didn't-"

"As you wish, _Dr._ Perkins. Answer my question, please."

Perkins sighs. "Dr. Crane, I'm here to help you. Now, I can't help you if you keep avoiding my questions and turning them around on me. This would be much easier with your cooperation."

Crane raises his eyebrows. "So you're not going to answer my question, then?" he asks.

"No," Perkins replies firmly. "I'm here to talk about you, not me."

Crane leans back in his chair, handcuffs clinking together as he moves. "Such a shame," he says airily. He looks directly into Perkins' eyes, and Perkins feels a distinct chill down his spine. He suppresses the urge to shudder and holds Crane's gaze.

After a moment Crane smiles. "Perhaps next time, then." The words are spoken with a sense of finality and Perkins knows he will not get another answer out of Crane tonight. The interview is over.

Perkins presses the "stop" button on his tape recorder and begins to pack his things away. When he is finished he rises from his chair and turns to the guard; the man gives him a knowing look, as if to say "he does this to everyone", and Perkins feels a rush of embarrassment. While he hadn't expected for his first session with Crane to be fruitful, he hadn't expected..._this_.

"We're done for the night, thank you," Perkins tells the guard before turning back to Crane. "Thank you for your time tonight, Dr. Crane."

Crane says nothing in return, only stares at him with his icy blue eyes.

Perkin's hand is the doorknob when Crane finally speaks.

"I look forward to our next session, Dr. Perkins."

The words are innocent enough, but the way Crane says them sends another chill through Perkins. He sounds...excited. Genuinely excited.

Before Perkins leaves the asylum he locks his briefcase in his office. He does not take his notes home with him for review, nor does he bring his tape recorder.

The chill stays with him for the rest of the night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Sessions with Madness, Chapter Three**

By the time the next appointment has arrived Perkins is scolding himself inwardly for feeling such useless trepidation. He's interviewed countless patients and inmates, the worst of the worst, and yet here he is allowing a spindly, meek, _powerless_ man to affect him.

Ridiculous.

What is Crane going to do to him, anyway? The man's nothing without his makeshift mask and chemical set. Any threat he may have posed has been stripped away by Arkham staff, and the man who plunged Gotham into terror now spends his time sentient in his cell. He might _sound_ creepy, but in reality he's nothing more than a failed criminal desperate to hold onto his last bit of infamy—hardly anyone he should be intimidated by.

If anything, he should _pity_ Crane. It must be humiliating to devolve from a respected, high-ranked psychiatrist to an inmate in the asylum that once employed you. Maybe he'll try the sympathy angle this time; perhaps Crane will be more forthcoming with someone that he thinks cares about him.

It's just a matter of finding the correct tool to dissect him with, the right button to push. That's how every single one of his other patients have been, and Crane will be no exception.

And if Crane requires a little "push" in the right direction? Well, that won't be a problem.

Either way, Perkins is going to do whatever it takes to get exactly what he wants.

* * *

"Patient interview two with Patient Number 7942, Jonathan Crane. Dr. Crane, how are you feeling this evening?"

"Rather bored, until you arrived, Dr. Perkins." Crane's voice is silky and the corners of his mouth turn upwards into a small, tight smile. "I have been looking forward to our meeting."

"I'm very glad to hear that, Dr. Crane." Perkins returns Crane's smile with one of his own, and Crane struggles to keep from grimacing at his exaggerated, toothy grin.

"As far as being bored, I believe I may be able to help you with that. If you cooperate during our sessions and show that you are serious about your treatment, I'll see what I can do about getting you some privileges."

Crane raises his eyebrows. "Privileges?"

"Books in your cell, for starters. Perhaps we could even arrange supervised visits to the asylum's library." Perkins' grin widens as he looks at Crane expectantly, as if expecting him to marvel in awe at his generous offer.

Crane nods slowly. "What about pen and paper?"

"Asylum rules dictate that patients are not allowed sharp objects, but I might be able to get you a typewriter. We could even integrate it into your therapy. You could start keeping journal entries and bringing them to our appointments, for example."

Crane observes a sudden flash of greed in Perkins' eyes. Of course Perkins would love to get a hold of journals written by him; Crane imagines he'd find some use for them that have nothing to do with his "rehabilitation".

He finds everything about Perkins repulsive: his fumbling mannerisms, his poorly-constructed facade of professionalism to mask his excessive appetite, his pompous attitude, and that gruesome, hungry grin. He knows that Perkins sees him as the demure, quiet coworker who kept to himself and not as Scarecrow, and he knows that he is not afraid of him.

Not right now, anyway.

"That's very charitable of you, Dr. Perkins," Crane says.

Perkins nods. "Let's get through a couple of sessions and then we can start setting things into motion."

"Sounds fair."

Perkins opens his files and picks up his pen. "When we left off at our last meeting, we were discussing your interest in fear. What do you believe sparked your attraction to this emotion?"

Crane pauses for a moment before answering. "Everybody experiences fear, Dr. Perkins. Fear of failure. Fear of harm. Fear of death. It's a primal, basic emotion, and people will go to great lengths to not feel it."

He leans forward. "And then there are irrational fears. Phobias. Anxieties. Some people are so crippled by fear that they never leave their homes. If you can harness that raw power and inflict it on others, there is no limit to what you can do. If you control fear, you control everything."

Perkins watches Crane in awe; eyes sparkling and cheeks flushed, Crane looks positively enthralled. His words had been spoken with hushed revere, his devotion with fear akin to religious fervor. Perkins swallows, and despite his earlier resolve he can feel his bravado beginning to ebb away. A quick sideways glance reveals that today's guard feels the same sense of astonishment, his mouth hanging open in horrified shock.

Crane clears his throat and the emotion is gone, his features now calm and collected.

"If I recall correctly, I believe that I had a question of my own last time we met."

Perkins blinks, snapping himself out of his reverence.

"Dr. Crane, as I explained to you in our previous session: we're here to talk about you, not me. Now, I'm willing to divulge small details about myself if it makes you feel more comfortable speaking to me, but I feel that discussing certain things may be detrimental to your therapy."

When Crane says nothing, Perkins takes it as his cue to ask the next question.

"What frightens you, Dr. Crane?"

Crane lets out a sharp _hah_, startling Perkins. "Well, _that's_ hardly a fair question," he says brusquely, "considering I just asked you the same thing and said it would be—what was it? Oh yes, _detrimental _to discuss." He smirks. "Sorry, doctor. I'm afraid I'm not _comfortable_ answering that."

"If we could discuss your fears, we can work together to overcome them. Perhaps then we can get to the crux of your desire to inflict that same fear onto others."

In the spur of the moment, Perkins decides to take a gamble. He leans forward and feigns the most kind-eyed expression he can muster. "I know that you've been treated unfairly by others in the past. Misunderstood. But I just want what's best for you, Dr. Crane. I genuinely want to help you get better."

Crane holds Perkins' gaze. His eyes do not betray the seething, simmering anger he feels brewing inside of him, boiling his blood and coursing through his veins.

Nothing infuriates Crane more than pity. Pity is for the weak and the worthless. Pity is an insult. He does not want it nor does he need it, _especially_ coming from a spineless, grotesque, half-witted, completely loathsome worm like Perkins.

He wants to reach over and wipe that smug smile off the doctor's face, tearing and clawing at him until his face is a mask of blood. He wants to wrap his fingers around Perkins' throat, watching as the doctor looks up at him with wide, terrified eyes while his final breaths leave his body. He may not have his toxin, but he is still more than capable of drowning someone in their own nightmares. Crane will find out what scares Perkins and he will use it against him over and over again, until his mind is in pieces and his body is screaming for the merciful kiss of death.

But not right now. For now, he will wait.

"I'm rather tired, Dr. Perkins," Crane says quietly. "Would it be alright if we continued this discussion in our next appointment?"

Perkins tries and fails to conceal his disappointment. "Of course." He motions toward the guard to signal the end of the session; the guard steps forward, still wearing the same horrified expression from earlier.

"I want to thank you for cooperation today, Dr. Crane. Keep up the good work and I'll see what I can do about getting you some books soon."

Crane smiles and nods, swallowing a fresh wave of anger.

Later when Crane is alone in his cell, he reflects on the session. It had been apparent within a few minutes of their first meeting that Perkins is unnerved by him, and today's appointment had solidified that.

It will only be a matter of time before he is well and truly frightened of him, and then Crane will strike.

Perkins' screams will the sweetest he has ever heard.


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**A/N:** Just a warning—there is a bit more discussion of violence in this chapter than usual.

**Session with Madness, Chapter Four**

"Patient Interview three with Patient Number 7492, Jonathan Crane. How are you tonight, Dr. Crane?"

"Alright, I suppose."

Perkins prepares his pen and notepad. "Dr. Crane, tonight I thought we'd discuss-"

"Actually, Dr. Perkins, I have something I'd like to share with you. I've been thinking about it often, and I believe talking to you may help."

"Of course, Dr. Crane." _Yes. This is what he's been waiting for. __**The good stuff.**_"What's on your mind?"

Crane's eyes bore into Perkins. "My first," he says quietly.

_Oh_. Perkins wasn't expecting that. "Your first...lover?"

Crane sets his jaw with annoyance. _Leave it to this bumbling idiot to miss the bigger picture_. "_No_," he replies, voice dripping agitation. "The first person I tested my toxin on."

Perkins' breath catches in his throat. _Even better_.

"Your first victim?"

"If that's the terminology you choose to use, then yes."

"What term do you prefer, Dr. Crane?"

Crane smiles. "Enlightened."

An all-too-familiar chill runs down Perkins' spine. "Enlightened?"

Crane leans forward, handcuffs clinking against the table as he places his hands in his lap.

"I had been working on my toxin for years before I entertained the notion of actually testing it on a human being. I used lab rats, of course, but after a time their results became repetitive and useless. I knew that in order to truly test my toxin's potential I would need to use it on a person, but then there was the problem of finding a test subject in addition to a time and place for the experiment.

"When I worked at the asylum I came into contact with all sorts of undesirables—I'm sure you're quite familiar with that. After I while I could tune them out, if I ever bothered to listen at all. I suppose you could say that I was desensitized, but truthfully I just quit paying attention. I sat in the interview room, I took the notes, and I gave them prescriptions, but my mind was always on my true work.

"Until I met _him_."

Perkins swallows. "Your first test subject?"

Crane nods.

"I had encountered patients who took joy in harming others more times than I could possibly count. But this man was different. He liked to _brag._ He would sit there wearing this repulsive grin while going over every detail of his crimes. He'd tell me what they looked like, how scared they had been, how he'd hurt them. How much they had cried. And when he looked at me with these beady, cruel eyes and said _'I bet you like hearing about this kinda stuff, huh?'_, I felt something inside of me snap."

Crane wets his lips. "If there's one thing I can abide, Dr. Perkins, it's a bully."

There is a brief, tension-filled pause before Crane continues.

"I knew then and there that this man was going to be my test subject. One way or another, I was going to use my fear toxin on him. I wanted to make him suffer—not on behalf of those he had harmed, but because he deserved it.

"So I waited. I continued therapy with him and I continued prescribing him medications. In the meantime, I was painstakingly preparing every detail, planning every step.

"One day I discovered that we had a guard working the night shift who could be easily influenced for the right amount of cash. You know the type; intimidating, boorish, only employed at this asylum because they'd been fired from every other job they'd had. Arkham isn't a particularly picky employer when it comes to their guards."

The guard in the corner bristles and the slightest bit of a smirk plays across Crane's lips.

"So I prescribed a much higher dosage for the patient than usual, knowing it would send him into a deep sleep. I had the guard transfer him to the basement—he didn't ask any questions. I don't know if it's because he didn't want to know or because he just didn't care. He strapped him to a gurney using restraints, and left him in one of the old cells the asylum used before the renovations.

And then I came in."

Crane's face betrays no emotion, his voice level and calm; he may as well have been discussing the weather.

"When he finally woke up, he wasn't very happy about his current location. He began to yell at me, to threaten me. He said that he was going to get a lawyer and sue the asylum for violation of his rights, and that he would see to it that I was fired. And there were physical threats, of course.

"He was so caught up in his ranting and raving that he didn't even notice that I had a syringe in my hands until I'd already plunged it into his arm.

"When I injected the lab rats with toxin, the fear overtook them within seconds. It took about a minute for the patient to feel anything, during which he continued to threaten me.

"The change was quite visible; his eyes widen, his lips curled. It was very apparent that this man was becoming rapidly more frightened by the second. His obscenities and threats turned to screams of terror. He began to thrash around on the gurney, bound underneath the restraints.

"At this point, I approached him and leaned forward so that my face was inches above his. I remembering asking him if this was what his victims sounded like. He looked up at me with his red, tear-streaked face, and he just looked so pathetic. So pathetic and _weak_. And _I_ had made him that way."

There is a moment of silence before Perkins asks, "what happened to the patient?"

"I waited until he'd passed out and then had the guard bring him up until his cell. I gave him some medicine to make his memory hazy. Since my toxin was in its initial rudimentary stage, he was left with some lingering effects. In his later sessions he was quiet, withdrawn. He certainly didn't brag anymore," Crane replies, a hint of satisfaction in his tone.

"Where is he now?"

Crane shrugs. "I suppose he's still here. I'm not sure—I don't even remember his name."

Perkins' hands are trembling above his notepad. "You terrorized that man and you don't even remember his name?"

"No. Should I?"

Perkins blinks.

"I suppose that's all for tonight, then?" Crane asks lightly, leaning back in his chair.

Perkins clears his throat. "Just one quick question, Dr. Crane. Why do you refer to your victims as "enlightened"?"

"Because I showed them something that no one else ever can or will—I showed them their deepest, purest fear. They experienced an emotion is it's most primal, unadulterated stage because I allowed them to. Their lives will never be the same again because of it, and for that they are now enlightened."

"You speak as if you've done them a favor."

Crane smiles. "Perhaps I did."

* * *

Later that night when Perkins is lying in bed, he thinks of Crane's story. He thinks about enlightenment and lab rats and an unnamed man lying in an Arkham cell with the distinction of being the first to taste Crane's fear.

He does not sleep. He is afraid of what he might dream.


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Session with Madness, Chapter Five**

When Perkins arrives for their next session he looks tired and weary; Crane can tell that he has not slept much since their last meeting.

_Good._

"Hello, Dr. Crane. I hope you are doing well this evening."

Before Crane has a chance to reply Perkins has turned to face the guard. "Good evening, sir," he says. "If it's alright with you, I would prefer if you could step outside during today's meeting."

The guard raises an eyebrow. "Sorry, Doc, but I ain't supposed to leave you alone with the patients. Asylum rules."

Perkins leans forward and lowers his voice. "Between you and me, I don't think he's going to give me any trouble. He's not exactly..._intimidating_, if you know what I mean."

He watches as the guard glances at Crane and visibly shudders. "No, but he _is_ creepy."

_Creepy, crafty Crane. _

That nickname is almost comical now.

Perkins reaches into his pocket and withdraws his wallet; he selects a few crisp bills, holding them between his fingers.

"Just a few minutes. Go and get yourself a cup of coffee, take a smoke break." Perkins gathers all of his charm and manages a smile. "It'll be our little secret."

The guard gives Crane another sideways glance before reaching forward and snatching the money.

"Don't touch his cuffs," the guard says, his voice stern. "I'll be back in ten minutes. He gives you any trouble, you yell and I'll be in here in seconds. You hear that, Crane?" The guard turns to Crane, who replies with a small nod.

He turns back to Perkins. "Ten minutes," he repeats before opening the interview room door and walking into the hallway.

The door closes behind him and for the first time Perkins and Crane are alone together.

There is a considerable pause before Crane interrupts the silence. "Well, this is quite the surprise, Dr. Perkins," he says smoothly.

In truth, Crane has been expecting this since he and Perkins parted ways after their last session. He'd seen the fear in Perkins' eyes as he'd recounted his first experience with fear toxin, but he'd also seen captivation. Allure.

Greed.

Perkins is _oh so close_ to springing Crane's trap, and he doesn't even realize it.

Not that Crane expected him to. That would take intelligence.

Perkins crosses the room and takes a seat at the table. He does not remove his notes from his briefcase, nor does he retrieve his tape recorder. Instead, he leans forward, places his elbows on the table, and with as much bravado as he can muster looks Crane in his cold, blue eyes.

"I want you to teach me how you did it."

Every fiber of his being knows that he is making a mistake. He knows that he should leave this room and never look back, drop Crane as a patient, and burn his notes and recordings. He knows that now there is no turning back, that his life will forever be changed by the words that he has just spoken.

And yet that same part of him knows that he cannot simply walk away from this. What started as a desire for a book deal has turned into so much more. How could he have been so short-sighted, so stupid? He's been focusing on trivial details when he should have been questioning Crane about his greatest creation.

Who needs a Gotham Times bestseller when you can have power?

Crane's expression is impartial, blank, as if Perkins had just inquired about the weather or a soup recipe.

"And why should I do that, Dr. Perkins?"

Perkins leans closer. "I can carry on your legacy, Dr. Crane. You have this incredible talent and it's going to waste in here. Let me help you." His voice begins to shake. "Let me continue your work."

Crane continues to appear unmoved. "Do you have any idea of the gravity of what you have just asked me?"

Perkins swallows. "Yes."

There is another agonizing pause before Crane speaks again.

"Alright."

Perkins cannot stop himself from letting out a gasp of shock and relief, and he leans back in his chair as excitement washes over him.

"Thank you, Dr. Crane, thank you," he whispers.

"But I have two conditions."

Perkins' body stiffens. "Yes?"

"The recorder stays on at all times during our meetings. This is not negotiable." Crane's voice is sharp, commanding. He can now completely drop the pretense of a meek, timid man—Crane is in charge now, and they both know it.

"But why-"

"_Do not ask me stupid questions_, Norman. I _can _call you Norman now, can't I?"

Perkins nods quickly, flustered. "Yes, of course, Dr. Crane."

"So we understand that the tape recorder stays, then?"

"Yes."

"Good." Crane wets his lips with the tip of his tongue and gives Perkins a grim smile. "My other condition is that you tell me ex_actly_ what you are afraid of and _why_ it frightens you."

Perkins' breath catches in his throat and he feels the beginnings of that familiar chill begin to creep up his spine.

"I believe our friend the guard will be returning in a couple of minutes, Norman. Hardly enough time to really get to the root of your...problem. I expect all of the sordid details during our next meaning." Crane winks and Perkins feels his stomach lurch.

Not trusting himself to speak, Perkins nods slowly in agreeance.

"I suppose you'll be wanting to continue our talks without a guard present—I'm not sure how you'll manage to pull that one off, but I have faith in you, Norman."

Crane leans back in his chair, a smug smile of satisfaction playing across his lips.

"I'm so glad we had this talk, Norman. I have the feeling that this is going to be the start of a wonderful friendship."


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Session with Madness, Chapter Six**

"Patient interview number one with Patient Number 0001, Dr. Norman Perkins. Dr. Perkins, how are you doing this evening?"

"Dr. Crane, really, this is most unorthodox-"

"I believe that we agreed to continue to record our sessions, Dr Perkins," Crane says; his tone, while not unpleasant, indicates that he is in no mood to be challenged.

"Yes, yes, you're correct, Dr. Crane," Perkins says quickly, eager to smother Crane's burgeoning temper. "I just didn't realize..."

"Didn't realize what, _Norman_?"

"...that I would be the one being interviewed."

There is a brief pause before Crane sighs.

"Dr. Perkins, I'm here to help you. Now, I can't help you if you keep avoiding my questions and turning them around on me. This would be much easier with your cooperation." Crane's smile is devoid of any sincerity or concern, his tone full of mockery and disdain.

Perkins feels his blood begin to chill as he realizes that Crane is echoing his own statement from a previous session, turning his words against him.

_He's been planning this for a while—no, _this whole time._ He had me pegged the minute I walked through the door. Every word, every action, everything has been leading up to this very moment. _

_I haven't lost control—I never had it to begin with._

The revelation overwhelms him and he begins to feel sick, overcome with waves of nausea and regret.

"Are you alright, Dr. Perkins?" Crane asks, his voice indicating that he cares very little whether or not Perkins is "alright".

Perkins nods, not trusting himself to speak. He feels the beginnings of sweat forming on his forehead and he swallows the bile rising in his throat, his tongue thick with anxiety.

"Excellent. Before we begin, I must admit that I'm rather curious as to how you managed to arrange our little get-together without our usual..._company_."

"Bribe," Perkins replies flatly.

"Ah, I see. How expensive."

Perkins says nothing.

The tension in the room is palatable. Crane knows that Perkins is now frightened of him; gone is the egotist with delusions of grandeur and prosperity, replaced with a nervous, simpering man afraid of incurring Crane's displeasure, torn between his dread and his thirst for knowledge and its accompanying power.

It's almost enough to make Crane pity him.

Almost.

"What are you afraid of, Dr. Perkins?" It is not so much a question as it is a demand. "And don't lie to me—I'll _know_ if you lie."

Perkins lets out a quiet, defeated sigh. "The dark," he whispers.

"The dark?"

"Yes."

"Achluophobia. Highly common in children, unusual in adults. Why do you believe that you are afraid of the dark, Dr. Perkins?"

Perkins takes a deep breath.

"When I was a very young child, my mother died. Car accident. My father was devastated and began to drink, and when he drank he became...different. Cruel."

"Abusive?"

"Not physically, no. He never once struck me. But I feared him all the same."

Perkins takes another deep breath, and when he speaks his voice begins to tremble.

"Eventually I learned to avoid my father as much as possible—I was an unpleasant reminder of _her,_ you see. When I wasn't around, he could pretend that I didn't exist, and that _she_ never existed. To my father, my presence was nothing more than a painful reminder of what he had lost. Out of sight, out of mind.

But sometimes, I would slip up."

Perkins set his jaw, and Crane notices the beginnings of tears forming in his eyes.

"His punishment was always the same: being locked inside of an empty, pitch-black closet. The only factor that varied was the amount of time I would be in there. At first it was for very brief periods; ten minutes, maybe fifteen a most.

And then he started leaving me in there for longer."

Perkins' knuckles are white, his palms and forehead wet with perspiration.

"One day, he put me in the closet, placed the dresser in front of the door, and left."

At this, Perkins covers his face with his hands, his shoulders softly heaving up and down with silent sobs. Crane sits quietly, his expression betraying nothing of his inner thoughts.

"How long?" Crane asks simply after a moment.

Perkins lifts his head, eyes irritated red from salty tears.

"I...I don't know exactly. Days. The smell..."

He lets out a great sniff, wiping his nose in-elegantly with his jacket sleeve, as a crying child would.

"We never spoke of it. Not once."

"Where is your father now?"

"Dead." Perkins spits the word out with equal vehemence and sorrow. "Drank himself to death."

"I see."

Crane appraises Perkins—sniffing, wet, and defeated—and smiles inwardly, drinking in his remembered fear and pain. It has been so long since he has made someone feel truly frightened.

"Tell me, Dr. Perkins." Crane leans forward, as if whispering a secret. "When you lie awake at night in your bed, surrounded by darkness in your cold, lonely apartment, do you find yourself back in the closet?"

Perkins eyes widen in shock and anger and Crane cannot suppress his satisfied sneer.

"I believe that will be all for today, Dr. Perkins." Crane reaches over and presses the "stop" button on the recorder. "I think we made quite a bit of progress, don't you?"

Perkins rises from his chair.

"We had a deal, Crane. You got what you wanted, now _I_ get what _I _want."

"But of course, Dr. Perkins." Crane smiles at him, and despite his anger Perkins' spine begins to crawl. "I'll see to it that you have _exactly_ what you want."

Perkins blinks, unsure of whether or not he is being threatened.

"I'll tell the guard to bring you back to your cell," he says quickly, grabbing his briefcase and turning towards the door.

"Of course," Crane replies quietly, but Perkins has already left the room, eager to put as much distance possible between himself and Crane. Crane listens to his footsteps fading down the hallway, click-clacking in quick, rhythmic succession.

_Poor man_, Crane thinks to himself.

_He was in such a hurry that he forgot his pen._


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Session with Madness, Chapter Seven**

Dr. Jonathan Crane lies in Arkham Asylum's infirmary, feverish and retching. His skin is waxen and pale, hair matted to his forehead with sweat. "Water, please," he says, his voice a raspy whisper, and a nurse brings a bottle to his lips. He squirms and tries to become more comfortable, but his legs and one of his arms are cuffed tightly to the bed's frame and greatly inhibit his movement; he is only allowed a free arm so that he may hold a small basin beneath him in case he is sick again.

"When did this start?" The nurse's voice is not unkind but carries the same tired, heavy tone as many of the other asylum employees. She brings a cool rag to his forehead, wiping away the sweat—normally she does not show this much care towards patients due to both fear and revulsion, but Crane is different. No one is scared of timid, meek, and now sickly Crane.

It is for this reason that she allowed her coworker to head home early, leaving her alone with the patient.

"A couple of hours ago," Crane replies quietly, surveying the nurse between half-closed eyes. She cannot be more than thirty, yet her eyes are lined with dark circles indicating many sleepless nights. _Arkham tends to have that affect on people_, he thinks to himself wryly.

She clucks her tongue disapprovingly. "You should have been brought in much sooner."

He manages a shrug. "I didn't want to disturb anyone...it's so late.."

"That it is." The nurse pulls a blanket over his shoulders and flicks off the light switch. "Time for you to get some rest. If you need anything, I'm right here."

She does not wait for his reply, instead turning away from him and walking towards her desk. The faint glow of the desk's lamp gives sufficient light for her work; the rest of the room is quite dark. Crane is grateful for the darkness, but not because it will make it easier for him to sleep.

He has other plans.

Moving with painstaking slowness so as not to alert the nurse to his actions, Crane slips the pen that Perkins left behind during their last session from the waistband of his pants. He brings his hand to his stomach and curls up as if in pain, gripping the pen tightly. He takes a deep breath to prepare himself before his eyes widen in horror as choking sounds rip from his throat.

The nurse is instantly on her feet and across the room.

"What's wr-"

Her words are cut off as Crane rams his forehead into hers, feeling rather than hearing the cracking of bone against bone. Her nose erupts with blood—Crane can feel blood trickling down his own forehead, though whether it is his or hers he cannot be sure of—and she staggers in shock. She has no time to scream, no time to fully comprehend what has happened before he slams the pen into her ear, connecting with her brain with a sick _thump_.

She crumples silently, dead before she hits the floor.

Heart pounding in his chest, Crane stretches until his fingers graze across the nurse's keyring; hooking his finger through the loop, he lifts it towards him. With quick, nimble fingers he selects the handcuff key and frees himself. His stomach lurches as he rises from the bed, but there is no time to be sick. Not right now. This moment has been meticulously planned and there is no room for the slightest error or delay.

His illness was unfortunate but necessary—he knew the guards would not take him to the infirmary unless he was genuinely sick and even then only if they deemed it unavoidable. He had been stowing away his medication for weeks—it was pathetic how the nurses still fell for the old "under the tongue trick"-and took a large dose that evening. His pharmaceutical training left him with considerable knowledge of medication and its side effects, and he knew that the dosage would leave him nauseated and shaking.

Within an hour he was vomiting, and after another hour of begging the guards he was taken to the infirmary.

And now here he was, slick with blood and sweat, and within an arm's reach of freedom.

He steps over the nurse's body and pulls open a drawer, breathing a quiet sigh of relief when he sees a pair of scrubs inside. He strips and quickly wipes the gore from his body, hair, and glasses before sliding the scrubs on. He winces as he crams his feet painfully inside the nurse's shoes; they are far too small, but he has no alternative. Placing a medical mask on his face and a hair cap atop his head, he studies his reflection for any obvious flaws; the mask and cap do a sufficient job disguising him, and the Arkham night guards are far more concerned with their several-hours-long smoke breaks than paying attention to the staff's coming and goings—a fact that had served him well during his employment.

Crane tucks a few syringes into his pocket, inhales a deep, sharp breath, and walks out of the infirmary. His composure remains cool and calm as he walks down the numerous hallways, past the front guard (who did not even bother to look up from his newspaper and will sorely regret it later) and right out the front doors of Arkham Asylum.

In fifteen minutes a janitor will walk into the infirmary to collect the waste, let out a high, piercing scream to alert the guards, who will barrel into the room with frantic eyes and guns out. They will realize what has happened and raise the alarm, and within two minutes Arkham Asylum will be on lock down. Someone will pull up the security camera, scan the footage, and see Crane walk out the door with the relaxed manner of someone strolling through a park. From then, police will be called to the asylum, and after that the reporters will arrive, as they always do whenever they detect the faintest whiff of a story. His picture will be splashed across the news for the first time since his trial ended—_**Breaking News! Disgraced Doctor Crane Breaks Free From Arkham!**_-and the good citizens of Gotham will be keeping their eyes peeled for the briefest glimpse of him. And of course _Batman_ will know about this before the police even do—he's rather good at sticking his nose where it doesn't belong.

But none of that will matter. By then, Crane will already be well on his way towards his destination.

But first he has a visit to make.


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Session with Madness, Chapter Eight**

Dr. Norman Perkins sits in his favorite upholstered chair inside his dark apartment, sipping a glass of scotch and watching the Gotham News Network's nine o'clock broadcast. He savors the burning sensation of the drink as it slides down his throat, the ice cool against his lips as it clinks against the glass. Condensation wets his fingertips, and for the first night in quite some time Perkins feels well and truly relaxed.

The first few weeks after Crane's escape are a frantic blur, but he has no problem remembering the phone call he received that night. He remembers Dr. Joan Leland's panicked voice, the way he tightly gripped the phone as if it were his life line, the sensation of his blood turning to ice. He remembers standing motionless in his living room long after Leland had hung up, listening to the droning of the dial tone until the police arrived to whisk him away to the station. He remembers these details as clearly as if they had happened moments ago, and he doubts that he will ever be able to forget them.

He wishes he could.

The police had stood guard outside his apartment for two weeks, looking bored and shifting their feet anxiously as if they _wanted_ Crane to show up, just to give them something to do. When they left, Commissioner Gordon had assured him that if he was even remotely concerned that all he had to do was phone the station and an officer would arrive within a matter of minutes. That didn't make him feel any better, but he'd smiled and shook his hand all the same.

Arkham Asylum's security was another story entirely—after a lengthy investigation, a massive lawsuit from the unfortunate nurse's family, and firing all of the night security staff, an inmate could not so much as sneeze without a guard knowing about it. While this was a reassuring thought while working, it provided little comfort while alone in his home.

But the following days turned to weeks turned to months, and without so much as a glimpse of Crane. Eventually Perkins quit looking over his shoulder anxiously in fear of seeing those steely blue eyes, and began to ease back into his normal routine. He quit spending long hours at the asylum and more time at his home, and actually started to enjoy life again. Sometimes, he even caught himself smiling.

Of course, there were the nights where he awoke in a cold sweat, his mind full of screaming rats and burlap and blood, and on those occasions he would carry a feeling of dread with him throughout the day. All things considered, he supposed that wasn't _too_ bad.

And hey—maybe he can still write that book.

He takes another sip of his drink, smiling as he ponders a title. _Speaking with Scarecrow_? Alliteration is always catchy. _Taming the Crow_? Nah, too cliché._ Sessions with Madness_? Hmm. That's a good one-

"Good evening, Dr. Perkins."

Perkins' breath catches in his throat and the glass slides from his grasp; it slips from his fingers to the floor, spilling its contents onto the carpet. _That'll leave a stain_, he thinks dimly as the thick carpet absorbs the amber brown liquid. _I'll never be able to get it out_.

His eyes scan the room frantically. _Where is he?_ He'd sounded so close-

"Hello, Dr. Crane." Perkin's voice is thick and his tongue feels too big for his mouth, yet the words come out smoothly, effortlessly. He's been preparing himself for this for quite some time, and although he'd managed to convince himself that he was relaxed, that the danger was over, deep down he has _always_ known that this night would come.

Perkins begins to rise from his chair, but a thin, insistent hand grips his shoulder with surprising strength and pushes him back down onto his seat.

_He's behind me, he's behind the chair-_

"There's no need to get up on my account, Dr. Perkins," Crane says pleasantly. "Although I do appreciate your good manners."

"It would be much more cordial if I could speak to you face to face," Perkins says carefully. The thought of actually seeing Crane increases his dread by tenfold, but it would be preferable to sitting here in the darkness, waiting for him to strike.

"I'd rather not."

Perkins can feel nervous beads of sweat beginning to form on his forehead, and despite himself he is grateful for the darkness; it would not do for him to show any sign of weakness in front of Crane. No matter what happens, he must not let Crane know that he is afraid.

_But he already knows, doesn't he? _

_The man can smell fear._

"What do you want, Dr. Crane?"

Silence.

Perkins takes a deep breath. "Are you going to hurt me, Dr. Crane?"

"Just a little."

Raw panic seizes Perkins and his determination to hide his fright is forgotten; he lurches forward, body surging with adrenaline. He stumbles and the room swims before him as he falls to the floor, hitting the carpet with a heavy thud.

_What's happening to me?!_

He tries to crawl, but his arms feel leaden and numb. Crane presses his foot into his spine, pinning him to the ground, and Perkins lets out a defeated yowl of pain.

"Come now, Dr. Perkins," Crane says. "That's certainly no way to behave." He reaches down and rolls Perkins over onto his back; he looks up at him hopelessly, and Crane feels a rush of satisfaction when he sees a singular tear roll down Perkins' cheek.

"I suppose you must be a little _confused_," he says in that familiar mocking tone that Perkins knows all to well, gesturing towards Perkins' legs. "You really shouldn't leave your liquor cabinet unlocked, _Norman_. Anyone could reach inside and put something just _awful_ in your drink." He watches as Perkins' face registers shock and he smiles. "Oh, I've been in here a few times—you really do have a lovely home. Perhaps a bit lacking in security, but lovely nonetheless."

Perkins wants to scream for help, to reach up and claw Crane's deep blue eyes out, but all he can do is lie still on the floor, lips frozen shut.

He can, however, feel the needle pierce his skin.

"You should consider yourself very privileged indeed, Dr. Perkins," Crane says, and his smile fills Perkins with fresh dread.

"You're about to be enlightened."


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: **I do not own the rights "Batman" or any of its characters, including Scarecrow, nor do I own any rights to the comics or the films. I own nothing save for any original characters I have created.

**Session with Madness, Chapter Nine**

"I'm tellin' ya, this is just a waste of time. We were at his house for _weeks_ and didn't see a damn thing except a neighbor with particularly nice legs."

Officer Lorre-a member of the Gotham City police force for nine long, tedious years-snaps his gum with a loud pop as if to somehow convey his annoyance with just how _stupid_ he thinks this little house-call is, and rolls his eyes towards his partner. The other man, Officer Quarry—a member of the force for two years, and a man of few words-shrugs with non-commitment, and Lorre accepts this gesture as agreement and spurs on.

"I mean, I know Gordon thinks this a real important case and all, but there ain't no way that creep Crane is still hangin' around Gotham." The pair walk into the lobby of Perkins' apartment building and head towards the elevator. "You ask me, he's somewhere halfway across the world, laughing and living it up while we scramble all over the city looking for him and twiddle our thumbs in front of his head-shrinker's apartment."

"Besides," Lorre says as they step inside of the elevator, "we got enough problems here as is."

Quarry punches a button and the elevator's doors close as they begin their ascension towards the seventeenth floor. "If Gordon thinks its important," he says carefully, "then it probably is."

Lorre scoffs. "I _guess._"

They are silent for the duration of their ride; when the elevator doors open they step into a hallway with rich, brown carpeting and sterile, yellow lighting that reminds Lorre of a hospital.

"What's the apartment number again?"

"1708," Quarry replies matter-of-factly, and it takes all of Lorre's self-control not to roll his eyes.

_When I get back to the station, first thing I'm gonna do is see about getting another partner-_

Quarry raps his knuckles against Perkins' apartment door. "Dr. Perkins, are you home?" He pauses for a moment before knocking again. "Dr. Perkins, are you alright?"

"Wait." Lorre raises a hand to silence Quarry. "You smell that?"

"What are you talking about?" He sniffs the air and catches a faint whiff of a strange, ripe odor.

"Once you've smelled it, you _never_ forget that smell. When was the last time this guy was seen at work? Friday?" Lorre's brow furrows and sudden, sick realization hits Quarry.

"Oh my-"

Lorre quickly removes his gun from its holster and takes a step back. "Dr. Perkins," he shouts in a commanding voice, the joking demeanor now gone, "we are coming in on the count of three! Step away from the door! One, two-"

Lorre kicks the door open and steps inside; Quarry follows him and immediately retches as he is overcome with the overwhelming stench of rot and decay.

Lorre darts quickly down the hallway and searches the rooms, finding no one—not that he expected to; when he comes back, he finds Quarry hovering over the kitchen sink, wiping his mouth.

"Looks like we found the good doctor," Lorre says glumly, and Quarry retches again.

* * *

Dr. Jonathan Crane smiles as he reads the front page of the newest edition of _The Gotham Times_. **Scarecrow's Psychiatrist Found Dead—Is Crane Responsible?** There is a lengthy article recounting Dr. Norman Perkins' life, from his humble beginnings as an intern to his many accomplishments in the psychiatric field. There is mention of an ex-wife and two children, along with a family photo; Crane pictures them clad in black, faces soaked with tears as they place a wreath on dear-old-dad's headstone, and his smile widens with amusement.

He often revisits the memory of Perkins lying helpless on the floor of his own home, face twisted into a horrible grimace of fear and revulsion, and it brings him much enjoyment and endless satisfaction. In the end, he'd given

Perkins exactly what he had wanted: knowledge. He had wanted to know the deepest inner-workings of Crane's mind, and Crane had showed him just that—fear in its purest form. Crane had gifted him with enlightenment, a treasure that so few can appreciate and even fewer posses.

In those terrifying moments leading to his death, Perkins had been privy to a level of existence that was both too fearful to imagine and too horrible to survive.

It's a shame he won't be able to write about it in his book. It could have been a real hit.

Crane tosses the paper to the side and returns to his work. He has been able to create about a dozen vials of toxin since his escape from Arkham Asylum, and as soon as he acquires more supplies he'll be able to make a dozen more. He's been itching to test this new batch out; his time in the asylum has left him a bit rusty, and hunting for a test subject is exactly the practice he needs.

As gratifying as Perkins' demise had been, it will pale in comparison to what he has planned. He will have Gotham falling to their knees again, bodies quaking and eyes mad with fear. It is only a matter of time.

But first, he'll start with their hero.

_The Bat-man._

**THE END**

**A/N:** Thank you all so, so much for reading! This story was seriously fun to write and I got so much lovely feedback. I'm a bit sad to end it, but once a story has run it's course it is better to go out on a high note rather than prolong it and have something I am less than happy with as a result. Whether you added this story to your alerts, your favorites list, left a review, or even just read—I can't thank you enough! People like you are the reason I keep writing Crane fanfiction and the reason I have so much fun in this fandom.

If you enjoyed this story, then I hope you'll read through my profile and maybe give my other stories a shot. Thank you again, and I'm glad I could provide you with entertainment!


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